


The Blind Drunk DI

by EbonyKnight, RomanyWalker



Series: Greg Lestrade And The Adventure Of The Alternative Lifestyle [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drunk Texting, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-08 02:26:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11637021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbonyKnight/pseuds/EbonyKnight, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RomanyWalker/pseuds/RomanyWalker
Summary: Fuelled in equal measure by horniness and alcohol, Greg texts Mycroft asking for sex. Mycroft doesn't disappoint.Part of a series but can be read as a standalone piece of Mystrade smuttiness.





	The Blind Drunk DI

**Author's Note:**

> We do not own Sherlock. Not entirely convinced that the BBC would screen it if we did. 
> 
> This is part of Greg Lestrade and the Adventure of the Alternative Lifestyle but can be read as a standalone piece. 
> 
> Chronologically, it sits after A Study in Deception and before The Adventure of the Two Holmeses.

**To: Mycroft Holmes** You up? Famcy a shag? I do. Been thinking about you all nighy

With courage fuelled in equal measure by adrenaline, beer, and horniness, Greg hit ‘send’ before his senses could return and assert control. After all, it wasn’t every day that he texted Mycroft asking for sex, but he had barely seen the other man in the last week, and given that he was in the pub celebrating _finally_ having caught the Daily Mail-coined Daisy Chain Killer, he thought there was just cause for a celebratory shag. 

Barely thirty seconds later his phone vibrated loudly against the table, and Greg felt a flutter in his chest at seeing **Mycroft Holmes** on the screen. He stood up, using the table for support when his legs didn’t work quite as well as anticipated, and swiped to accept the call.

“Hey, sexy,” he answered over the noise of a pub heaving with Thursday night revellers. Greg moved as quickly as his slightly-drunker-than-expected state would allow, ignoring his colleagues’ curious glances. “I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout you all night.”

Mycroft’s voice, when he finally spoke, was cool and cultured, and Greg felt a frisson of _want_. "When can I expect you to have finished with your friends in the snug of the Three Crowns?" 

"Have you been watching me? God, it's dead hot when you do that.” Greg ambled towards the back of the bar where there were fewer people, somehow managing to work his way between tightly-packed tables without knocking over a single drink. “So, d’ya fancy it? Fuckin’ me, I mean, ‘cause, that’s what I want. I’ve not done it before, but I want to. With you. Been imaginin’ it since you did that thing with your fingers. Come on, say somethin’,” he babbled when the only indication that Mycroft was still there was the sound of his breathing.

"A car will be outside in five minutes.” 

Greg leant against the wall, absently watching his fellow drinkers through slightly bleary eyes. “That a ‘yes’?” 

"You are intoxicated,” Mycroft noted, at his blandest. Greg groped his way through the most likely tiers of meaning. 

“A bit, yeah, but bein’ pissed doesn't mean I don't know what I want. I want you to fuck me.” When there was no immediate response, Greg felt a pang of fear. “Don’t you want to?” 

The wait for Mycroft’s response was unbearably long, and Greg felt a pulse of anticipation mixed with relief when the other man eventually said, “I want to. Get into the car. Five minutes, Inspector." 

Mycroft terminated the call and Greg grinned, pleased with himself. He hadn’t been lying when he said he’d been imagining it, and the thought of what was hopefully to come was enough to cause a distinct stirring in his trousers. 

Drunk and horny and more than a little bit eager, he wended his way back to the table and picked up his pint, downing the last of it in three swallows. He ignored the knowing looks from McMurdo and Whittard, concentrating instead on getting his phone into his pocket without doing any further damage to the glass screen.

“You off, Lestrade? Bit late for you old folk to be out now?” White asked with a cocky smirk. 

Greg flipped him the bird as he shrugged into his jacket but held his tongue; absolute twat though the man was, he’d certainly pulled his weight on this case. “Right, I’m off. See you in the mornin’,” he said with a vague wave to the table, and made his way back across the bar, having to force his way through a group of rather raucous Manchester United fans to get to the door.

The cool night air was certainly refreshing after having been in the close confines of the pub for hours, but it did nothing to reduce the effect of all the beer he’d sunk. Greg stumbled down the doorstep, barely catching himself on the wooden table just to the left of the door, much to the amusement of a passing young couple. “Whoops,” he mumbled, righting himself with effort.

He worked his phone out of his pocket, squinting slightly to read the time; Mycroft had said ‘five minutes’ and he was never wrong about such things, which meant he had about two minutes until the car arrived. With nothing better to do, Greg leant against the wall and absently watched the people and traffic passing, but his mind was very much on what he hoped was to come. He’d been a bit nervous when things started progressing between them, moving past the realms of frottage, wanking, and blow jobs, but the fact that the orgasm he’d experienced when Mycroft had properly introduced him to his prostate had left him seeing stars was going a long way towards helping with the residual nerves. Lost as he was in his musings about what was to come, and how it would feel, and how much he wanted to find out, it seemed that between one blink and the next a sleek black car had appeared out of nowhere, idling immediately outside the pub despite the double red lines. 

Greg crossed the pavement, vaguely impressed that he managed it without wavering _too_ much from a straight line, and opened the door to find Chloë, Mycroft’s executive assitant, in the back, attention wholly on her phone.

Surprised, he ducked into the car. "D’you _ever_ get time off?" 

Chloë glanced up from her phone, smiling faintly. "Oh, yeah. Loads." 

"It's gone midnight," Greg replied, staring at her in disbelief. He knew Mycroft must be a demanding man to work for but surely this was a excessive, even for him. 

"Yeah, I know," came the somewhat distracted response. A long moment passed, during which she tapped deftly at her phone before flicking her eyes up to glance at Greg. “You've been having fun." 

He grinned because he _had_ been having fun. His colleagues were - mostly - a good bunch and they’d worked bloody hard for today’s result. A night of relaxation and celebration had definitely been in order, and the thought of it ending in Mycroft’s bed was just the cherry on top. “Yeah. We solved a big case t’day.”

Chloë made no response, eyes firmly back on her phone, and Greg watched her work with a hint of curiosity about what, exactly, she was doing. He could _definitely_ see why John had been so taken with her, so much so that after finding out that Greg and Mycroft were friendly he’d asked if Greg knew whether ‘Anthea’ was single. Since starting this not-relationship, though, his tastes had definitely run in the direction of tall, dark haired men, even when sharing the back of a car with a gorgeous woman. 

As the silence dragged on, his thoughts meandered back to what he was hoping for when he got to Mycroft’s flat. The other man was a _fantastic_ lover, always three steps ahead in everything they did together, and Greg knew that he would make it good. Even the _thought_ of having Mycroft inside him was enough to overwhelm his mental filters, so much so that what was running through his head spilled unchecked past his lips. "He's dead sexy. Mycr’ft, I mean. Got an amazin’ pair o’ legs on ‘im. So long and sexy. And his _arse_. Jesus." 

"Yeah, sure. If you go for the type,” Chloë replied tolerantly. 

"Oh, I do." Chloë glanced up over the top of her phone, and even pissed as he was Greg read her amusement loud and clear. "God, I'm pissed. S’rry." 

"Yeah. It's cute." 

Face heating, Greg looked determinedly out of the window and would have been more than happy had the seat opened and swallowed him right then. He hadn’t been called ‘cute’ for a good twenty five years, and he wasn’t sure what to make of it. "'m not _cute_." 

"Oh, you definitely are,” Chloë replied, the smile obvious in her tone. 

Wiping a hand over his face, Greg groaned in embarrassment. "Shit, made a right tit of m’self." 

"Yeah, a bit. Don't worry about it."

The car came to a stop before things could move any further past the point of mortally humiliating and Greg flung the door open gratefully, the cool air a blessed relief on his flaming cheeks. As refreshing as it was, however, it did nothing to change the fact that he was well past the point of being steady on his feet and he stumbled, catching his arm painfully on the car door. “Fuckin’ door. Who left that there?” he growled, rubbing his arm, which would doubtlessly bruise.

Chloë beckoned him with a smile. “This way.” 

‘This way’ was walking - well, a close enough approximation of it - towards the building that housed Mycroft’s ridiculously expensive Pall Mall flat. After his first visit, Greg’s eyes had nearly fallen out of his head when he’d seen how much property in this area sold for, and he still hadn’t quite dealt with the ‘what the _fuck_ does a man who can afford _this_ want with _me_?’ questions that the knowledge had inspired. 

She directed him into the building, apparently waiting until there was no chance of him managing to get himself lost, and said, “Good night, Inspector Lestrade,” when the concierge opened the door.

“It’s Greg!” he called over his shoulder, but she was already back at the car. Greg sighed resignedly and entered the building with a mumbled ‘thanks’ to the concierge, making his way to the lift as quickly as his impaired balance and pickled brain could facilitate. 

The doors glided open as soon as he pushed the call button and he grinned, pleased with his luck. Greg checked his reflection in the lift’s mirrored wall as it travelled upwards, finding himself more than slightly dishevelled. Knowing how much Mycroft liked him properly turned out, he hastily tucked his shirt back into his trousers, which helped a little, but it did nothing for his five o’clock shadow or the state of his hair. “Fuck it,” he decided as the lift came to a smooth stop: he was a mess but there was bugger all he could do about it now. 

Finding the front door slightly ajar, Greg entered and closed it behind him with a decisive click, anticipation thrumming through his veins. He found Mycroft in the lounge, sitting magisterially in his favoured wing-back chair, swirling a healthy measure of scotch around his glass. “Well. It appears you _have_ been celebrating.”

Greg stood in the centre of the room, not quite sure whether he should approach Mycroft, sit down, or head for the bedroom and get his kit off. “Yeah, I have; was a big case an’ we did good.” He shifted his weight, eyes firmly fixed on Mycroft, and felt a throb of pure _want_. “God, you’re fuckin’ gorgeous. Missed you,” he said after a long moment, ignoring voice in his head that was yelling at him to _shut the fuck up, you tit!_

He didn’t really know what to make of the look Mycroft gave him, but relaxed slightly when the other man said, “You saw me seventeen hours ago. Come here.”

With a little more swagger than was probably acceptable for a man of his age, Greg did as he was told, crossing to where Mycroft was sitting by the fireplace. “You sure about that? It feels like longer,” he said, bracing his weight on the arms of the chair, and pressed a brief kiss to Mycroft’s lips. “Will you? What we talked about? I want you to.”

Mycroft reached up and ran his fingertips along Greg’s jaw, applying exactly the right pressure to have him pressing into the touch. Mycroft cupped his face and drew him down into a proper kiss, one that Greg felt to the very tips of his toes. “I think it might be arranged.”

At that, Greg’s already tenuous grasp on his willpower snapped; he straddled Mycroft’s lap, pressing as close as the position allowed, and kissed him like his life depended on it. Legs either side of the other man’s and one arm bracing his weight against the back of the chair, Greg worked his other hand down Mycroft’s chest, loosening his tie and flicking the topmost buttons of his shirt open as he went. Mycroft’s breathing sped up and he allowed the clumsy attempt at seduction for much longer than Greg expected, which only served to encourage him. “So f’cking _sexy_ ,” he breathed, pulling away for long enough to move his mouth from lips to neck. 

“You are, at that. Up,” Mycroft said with a sharp tap to Greg’s right thigh. 

Greg rose carefully, so as not to accidentally plant a knee anywhere unfortunate, and watched avidly as his lover followed, eyes roaming his now slightly dishevelled state hungrily. “Your suits, gorgeous,” he said, pressing close. “F’ckin’ hell, I want you.” 

“That’s nice,” Mycroft replied, and even pissed as a newt Greg heard the amusement. “This way.” He led the way to the bedroom, tolerating Greg’s _very_ unsubtle molestation with remarkable grace. 

As they approached the bedroom, Greg came back to himself slightly and, realising just how pushy he was being, dropped his hand from Mycroft’s arse. "'m sorry. Didn't mean to be so drunk."

"It's alright.” They stopped just inside the bedroom and Mycroft tipped Greg’s chin up, all-seeing eyes sweeping his face. "There is actually an optimal point of drunkenness in these endeavours, I understand. Where willingness is not in question." 

"Oh, I’m willin’. Very willin’.” Closing the distance between them, Greg laid a hand on Mycroft’s waist and tried to sound sober. “I’ve wanted it for ages but din't know how to ask. I've never...but I want to. With y–" 

Mycroft cut him off with a deep, probing kiss, and Greg was only too happy to board _that_ bandwagon. Before long he’d slid the hand down from Mycroft’s waist to cup his arse and had the fingers of the other tangled in his hair. Eventually, though, Mycroft pulled away, and Greg was pleased to see an apparent flash of reluctance. "Without wishing to be unnecessarily indelicate, there are certain practical considerations to address." 

Blinking in an attempt to bring his mind back into focus, Greg thought hard about what ‘practical considerations’ there might be, other than the need for a bed, condom, and lube, but came up blank. He plucked at his shirt, wondering if Mycroft objected to him having been on the go all day and wanted him clean before going any further. “I‘ve been in this all day; do you want me to shower?" 

Mycroft shook his head with a visible effort not to smile. “You spent forty minutes in the lavatory this afternoon. Am I right in presuming that you emptied your bowels?” 

As soon as Mycroft’s words properly registered, Greg blushed so hard that his cheeks hurt, not even wanting to think about how he knew _that_. “Yeah. I won’t...you know...do _that_.” 

"We may be beyond the optimal point," Mycroft murmured under his breath with a frown. "Perhaps a shower would be wise. This way." He led the way to the bathroom and started rooting through the fancy drawer unit. “Shower,” he directed, with glance over his shoulder. “And wash thoroughly.”

Greg immediately fumbled with his shirt buttons, trying to get the damned thing off as quickly as possible, and, concentrating as hard as he was on getting his kit off without ripping anything or doing himself an injury, startled when Mycroft’s mouth was suddenly pressed to the back of his neck. “Thoroughly, Greg, because I will be putting my mouth in some _very_ interesting places.” 

He showered - managing to keep his hands away from anywhere that might have him going off like a firework through sheer willpower - and was soon as clean as he ever had been, having been _very_ thorough in his washing. Greg shut the water off and shook his head, regretting it immediately when his vision swam. “N’t a good idea,” he muttered to the empty room, and reached for one of the ridiculously soft towels.

Clean and dry, he considered pulling his pants back on but quickly decided against it and meandered back to the bedroom in the buff. Inside, he found Mycroft sans jacket, tie loosened, and sleeves rolled up the elbow, and felt a renewed rush of arousal: something about the other man less than perfectly dressed got to him every fucking time. “God, you’re so s’xy.” 

With a soft laugh Mycroft gestured regally at the bed. “I believe that, in common parlance, that is my line.”

Greg climbed onto the bed and waited for directions - if he wasn’t exactly where Mycroft wanted him the other man would only have him move, anyway - and soon found himself on his back, arse right at the edge of the bed, pillow beneath his hips, and legs over Mycroft’s shoulders where the younger man was knelt on the floor. Lifting his head took some effort, but it was worth it when he caught sight of the expression on Mycroft’s face. “Hey, you oka—” he started, but dissolved into a moan when Mycroft took his cock into his mouth. He dropped his left arm over his eyes, helplessly lifting his hips into the hot suction. Mycroft followed his movements initially, but soon gripped his left hip firmly to hold him in place, drawing a frustrated groan from Greg.

Having been expecting fingers and then fucking, when Mycroft’s tongue made first contact with the sensitive skin around his hole, Greg froze, shocked. “Oh, fuck,” he gasped as _he’s fucking **rimming** me!_ screamed through his mind. He’d never really thought about having a tongue _there_ before, but the skin was sensitive and Mycroft’s mouth very, very talented; Greg sailed right past shock and was soon pressing back against the other man’s face, desperate for more. When clever fingers were added into the mix, too, expertly finding his prostate, Greg gasped, barely cognizant of the words spilling from his mouth. “Oh, fuck, more, please.”

When Mycroft pulled away with a gentle kiss to his inner thigh an indeterminable length of time later, Greg whined and lifted the arm away from his face. He found Mycroft, flushed and slightly puffy lipped, gazing up the length of his body, and there was a tube of lube on the bed that he didn’t remember seeing earlier. “I would be more than satisfied finishing you like this,” his lover said, using the fingers still inside Greg to brush his prostate. 

Greg shook his head, grinding against Mycroft’s hand; he knew that he was being offered an out, but fucking hell, _no_. “I want you.”

“You have me,” Mycroft replied, carefully withdrawing his fingers, and smoothed his clean hand up Greg’s thigh. 

“Please. I want this. With you.”

Mycroft inclined his head and helped Greg to lower his legs. “Move back,” he directed, standing up. He made use of a hand wipe to clean his hands and methodically started undressing. 

Watching his lover disrobe with hungry eyes, Greg shifted up the bed until his head was on a pillow. “Fuckin’ look at you,” he murmured, more to himself than Mycroft as the last of the other man’s clothing was removed, and pressed the palm of his right hand against his cock. “Been thinkin’ about this all night.”

Greg felt as much as saw the heated glance Mycroft directed at his body as he sheathed his cock and coated it in lubricant, and his arousal went up another gear with the knowledge that the other man wanted him in this way, too. 

Mycroft settled over him and Greg pressed up bodily, working a hand into his lover’s hair to pull him down into a heated kiss. After long moment, Mycroft pulled away and said, “It will be uncomfortable. Tell me to stop if you need to.”

“I know. ’m ready.”

Mycroft kissed him again and repositioned himself. Greg felt the head of his cock _right there_ and did his best not to tense, but when Mycroft breached him everything he’d read and seen in preparation for this flew from his head. The stretch and burn were momentarily overwhelming, and his eyes fell shut as he breathed deeply, trying to ground himself. His arousal waned and he did his best to hold back any pained sounds, but knew there was no hiding his discomfort; Mycroft, always able to read Greg like a book, was stroking his flank and murmuring soothingly, and between the alcohol, how much he wanted it, and his trust in Mycroft, it didn’t take as long as Greg expected for his body to adjust. 

“Yes?” Mycroft asked unsteadily, and Greg felt a thrill at the knowledge that it was _him_ who had made the other man, usually so composed, sound like that.

He opened his eyes and smiled. “Yeah.”

His lover's movements increased in strength and pace and depth incrementally, until Greg was lost in the rhythm, breathing heavily with his head thrown back against the pillow as the sensations - aided and abetted by the knowledge that Mycroft was _inside him_ \- progressed from ‘uncomfortable’ through ‘tolerable’ and right into ‘pleasurable’. He bit back a moan and clenched when Mycroft’s cock found his prostate, and, if the soft noises Mycroft was making where his face was pressed to Greg’s neck were an accurate indicator, the other man was right there with him. 

Somehow, despite the way Greg was clinging to him, Mycroft managed to work a hand between their bodies and took hold of his cock, pumping and twisting and stroking in time with his thrusts, and that was it. He’d been horny for hours and Mycroft had made this experience worth every second of waiting, so when he thumbed the head of Greg’s cock _just so_ at the same time as hitting his prostate, Greg saw stars and came _hard_. 

When his brain coming back online, he opened his eyes to see Mycroft freeze, eyes fluttering closed as he climaxed, and Greg, still pissed and high on sex hormones, had to repress the urge to say something irrevocably stupid.

Even moving carefully, their uncoupling was uncomfortable and he must have been broadcasting his dissatisfaction, for Mycroft ran a comforting hand down his side. “Are you alright?”

“Mmm, yeah,” Greg replied, fatigue setting in quickly. It had been a _really_ long week, and that in combination with the sex and booze was conspiring to make him very drowsy. Through heavy lidded eyes, he watched as Mycroft got up from the bed and disappeared into the en suite. He emerged, seemingly between one blink of the eye and the next, buttoned up in his pyjamas and carrying a damp hand towel. Greg took it and lethargically wiped himself down, vaguely aware that he would regret not washing more thoroughly in the morning, but was too tired and sated to care. 

Mycroft took the towel and disposed of it in the bathroom before settling back into bed; wanting to be as close possible, Greg rolled onto his side, pressing his face into the juncture of Mycroft’s neck and shoulder, breathing in his scent. “You’re ‘mazin’,” mumbled, barely registering the arm Mycroft wrapped around him as night closed in. 

***

Waking up the following morning was _not_ an experience Greg was in a hurry to repeat. His mouth felt like a large, diseased rodent had crawled inside and died at some point during the night, his head wasn’t the only achy bit of his body, and there was a distinct burn of embarrassment lurking around the edges of it all. 

As his faculties came back online, he registered the hand stroking his hair and shifted so that he could blink blearily at Mycroft. He was sitting up in bed still in his pyjamas, and the hand not in Greg’s hair tapping away at his mobile. “Ah, it awakens. Good morning,” he greeted with a fond smile. 

With the visual stimuli the room provided, memories of the previous night - particularly how drunk and demanding he’d been - surged to the fore, immediately explaining the embarrassment he was feeling. “Oh, God, I’m sorry about last night,” he said, covering his face with an arm. 

The hand Mycroft had in Greg’s hair stilled. “Could you be a little more specific, please?”

“Coming onto you like that,” Greg replied, eyes closed against the memories of throwing himself at Mycroft like a randy teenager pissed on cheap white cider. “You can tell me ‘no’ if I get too pushy; I won’t be offended.” The ‘mortally embarrassed, maybe, but not offended’ was left unsaid.

“I don’t recall complaining,” came the somewhat cautious response, and Greg relaxed slightly. He dropped his arm and looked up at Mycroft, searching for any sign that he was annoyed or uncomfortable and found none. Instead, there was definitely a hint of concern in his expression as he laid his phone down and slipped out of bed. “You must be dehydrated.” 

Greg watched as Mycroft left the bedroom, mind working as fast as his hungover state would allow. Yes, he’d been about as subtle as a sledgehammer, and yes he’d _definitely_ been more touchy-feely than normal, but he was sure he would have noticed any signs that Mycroft had been uncomfortable, even as drunk as he’d been. Moving to sit up, he felt a definite _something_ in the region of his anus, but certainly nothing like the excruciating pain the internet and urban legend had led him to expect. He shifted carefully until fully upright, propped up by pillows, just in time for Mycroft to return bearing a tall glass of water, with what was probably Alka Seltzer fizzing away in it. Watching as the other man approached, Greg mentally fumbled for words that conveyed ‘please tell me you actually _wanted_ that and didn’t just do it because I begged like a desperate rentboy’ without putting it in quite those terms. “I...you...I didn’t…” Greg wiped his face with a hand and started again, deciding that, in this case, direct was definitely the way to go. “Did you want to? Have sex with me like that, I mean.”

Mycroft favoured him with a long, flat look and held out the glass of water. “Of the two of us, I was not the one whose ability to consent to last night’s activities was in any way impaired. It would hardly have been beyond my power to stop you had you done anything to which I objected.” 

Relieved, Greg smiled before accepting the glass and taking a healthy swallow, the cool water a blessed relief for his dry throat. “Oh, that’s good. Thanks.”

Inclining his head, Mycroft perched on the edge of the bed as Greg drank again. “Regrets?”

“A couple,” Greg replied honestly, reaching out to stroke Mycroft’s pyjama-clad thigh. “That I put off asking for so long and then went about it like _that_ , definitely. Regrets about you? None, none at all: you were amazing."

“I’m glad to hear it.” Something about Mycroft’s bearing relaxed infinitesimally, and he leant in for a kiss. Greg worried briefly about his morning breath, but for a man so fastidious in every other way, he’d never seemed to mind that. At length, the kiss came to a lingering end and Mycroft pulled away enough to say, “You don’t appear particularly hungover. Are you still under the influence, or have you been lucky this time?”

“I’ll be good after some coffee and something for my head,” Greg replied, absently carding fingers through Mycroft’s hair. “I doubt I’ll be fit for driving today, though.”

A comfortable silence settled over them, and Greg spent the time enjoying the casual intimacy of the moment. For the first years of their acquaintance, he had been _almost_ convinced by Mycroft’s iceman act, but the more time they spent together the less Greg saw of the man he’d thought Mycroft to be. Seeing him without the layers of sartorial armour, really getting to know the person behind the icy demeanour, and their recent physical intimacy were working together to do very dangerous things to Greg’s emotions. Times such as this, when they were simply enjoying one another's company, were particularly dangerous because there was nothing to distract him from the encroaching madness. Before his treacherous mind could lead him too far down the path to insanity and inevitable heartbreak, Greg shifted and stretched his arms over his head as he got out of bed. “Well, I should make a move. The arrests from yesterday will have me buried under an avalanche of paperwork for a week, so I’ll definitely need to get a proper breakfast on my way in.” 

“Yes, I thought you might,” Mycroft said. “I took the liberty of arranging breakfast at my club. A car is outside.” 

Greg turned to look at him, doing his best to protect his modesty with his hands, which even _he_ thought was ridiculous, given what they’d been doing less than six hours ago. “Sounds great,” he replied with a smile at the same time as his stomach rumbled its agreement. Between the mad rush of activity that had led to the arrests, the aftermath, and then a night spent in the pub, it had been far too long since he’d eaten properly, and not even his hangover was enough to quell the resultant hunger. 

After a brief kiss, Greg made his way to the bathroom, definitely regretting not cleaning himself up properly the night before. Though he knew that a hot shower would sort it out, dried lube in such a sensitive area was really not a pleasant feeling first thing in the morning. In the bathroom, he found his clothes in a heap behind the door; the shirt and trousers were creased beyond redemption, but they’d do until he could get to the spare set he kept at the office. It was either that or asking Mycroft if he could borrow a set of clothes, and he didn’t really fancy the chances of the other man having anything that would fit, given the differences in their height and shape.

With a huffed laugh at himself for getting into such a ridiculous situation when he was old enough to damned well know better, Greg turned the shower on. “Well, you know what they say, you idiot,” he muttered to the shower head as he stepped in. “Life starts at fifty.”


End file.
